The Time the Plane Wouldn't Fly: The Story of Rush's Past
by FizzGryphon
Summary: Rush is a strong soldier for the Jolly Wrenches, a plane trained by Skipper Riley, and a plane with a dark future. When he is shot down during a patrol on Glendalcanal he blames himself for his squadron's death. He can never face Skipper again... or even let him know he's alive. The story of a forgotten plane. Rated T for violence and death.
1. Chapter 1: A Plane Disgraced

Everything was calm on the Dwight D. Flysenhower today. Lucas and Jigsaw were doing laps around the ship and Storm and Strategy were playing a game of chess. A small group of three planes were crowding around them, watching. Even Skipper Riley was off guard for once and enjoying the quiet. He was lazily chatting with the Flysenhower and Sparky. I seemed to be the only plane in the squadron that hadn't let down his guard on the ship. Skipper glanced back at me with concerned eyes, "Rush, I know you're being a good soldier but why worry. We're far from enemy lines and how likely is it that we'll find any trouble today." _Very likely_, I thought. Skipper continued, "Enjoy the peace when it comes."

"I'll try, Skip," I said.

Skipper nodded and turned to leave, "Oh, Rush, I'd like you to come on a patrol with me. That's one thing you can worry about."

"Rodger that, Skip," I said, raising my right wing in a quick salute.

Skipper gave me a withering glance, "There's no need for that now."

Skipper and the Flysenhower had chosen seven planes, other than me to go along on the patrol of Glendalcanal. I glanced at the airplanes he had chosen to go along with us. Blair and Burn flew side by side. The two almost looked identical except for Burn's old squadron's insignia painted next to ours. Lucas was a prime example of a Corsair, sleek straight wings, gleaming paint, and sharp new propellers. Jigsaw's tail was slightly crooked, Storm's color was duller than most, and, strangely, David had one green eye and one brown. As I glanced around at my comrades I couldn't shake the feeling of danger as I scanned the cloud covered sea for any hint of an ambush. "Skipper," Lucas asked briskly, "How far do we have to go?"

"Further," Skipper said. He, too, was tense and ready for action. He flew almost stiffly as if he were reluctant to move on. His stress was grating on me.

Jigsaw flew up to me, "The clouds are starting to drive me crazy. How are we s'posed to patrol if we can't see the sea?" Skipper gave us a warning glance.

"If the clouds are going to allow us to see the ocean then they will," I whispered, trying to push the annoyingly talkative plane away.

Jigsaw flew away near Blair and Burn who were flying lower than everyone else. Blair suddenly piped up, "Hey, look at that!" We all turned our attention to an opening in the clouds where a single enemy ship floated.

"Easy pickin's, whaddaya say?" Jigsaw asked with eyes bright.

"Negative, Jigsaw 2," Skipper snapped, "Our orders are to recon and report back."

I felt compelled to join the plea, I wanted action, "C'mon Skip, it'll be a turkey shoot."

When more planes joined, Skipper shook his nose, "Fine, let's go in for a closer look." We all turned our noses down but when we broke cloud cover we were faced with an entire fleet.

"It's the whole enemy!" I shouted as I dodged bullet after bullet but it was too late to pull up. I watched as plane after plane, friend after friend, was shot down mercilessly into the sea. Antiaircraft fire dug deep into my underbelly. Pain shot through me, "Skipper! Help me!" I screamed as my vision blurred. Another bullet hit my wing causing me to lose control. My nose dipped and another wave of sharp, burning pain flashed through me. I felt my landing gear almost automatically extend and then crack. My left wing went numb almost as soon as I hit the sea and the blue world began to dim and fade.

My body was numb and bird calls surrounded me. It felt as if I had had a terrible dream that I couldn't quite remember. I forced my eyes open and was momentarily confused; there was no pavement beneath me and my prop was bent into my nose. There was only sand, water, and sky as far as I could see. Suddenly memories came flooding back along with pain. I nearly fainted once more as I glanced at my wings. Half of my left wing was… gone, torn off. Where its stub lay oil had stained the sand. The bits of metal around it were turning grey, a tell tale sign of infection. My tail was coated in salt where the sea water had lapped at it.

I struggled to my landing gear and rolled up the beach a bit more so that the tide didn't splash around my tail. Pain flared through me and I collapsed. I watched as seagulls circled around me like hawks and vultures would around a dead tractor. My eyelids were heavy as the sun beat down relentlessly from above. If I were to survive, I needed help. "This is Rush 36 to USS Dwight D. Flysenhower, come in… please," I radioed, my voice weak with the effort.

To my surprise, a thin, small voice responded, "I hear you but this is the Fighting Redcocks on the USS Midway not the Jolly Wrenches."

I sighed, "I'm in need of assistance… I've crashed on a patrol and am now on an island."

"Are you hurt in any way?"

"Yes," I coughed up seawater before continuing, "I've lost a wing."

The other end of the radio was silent for a minute. The voice came back a bit stronger, "We'll be there as soon as we can. The Jolly Wrenches have searched for survivors from that patrol. Only Riley 7 has been found and returned home in bad but repairable shape. Don't move until we find you, Midway out."

I felt hot tears run down my nose as I mourned for my squadron. I felt ashamed when I thought about Skipper. He was in pain and the rest of my squadron was dead because I had wanted to attack. I had been so wrapped up in victory that I hadn't thought first about what I was doing. I thought myself the worst Jolly Wrench there ever was. I wanted to die here like the rest of my squadron, drown in the sea so near my battered body. Even if my wing was replaceable I would never fly again. I would suffer for my entire squadron and I could never face Skipper again. As far as I was concerned Skipper would probably hate me for what I had done. I cried and cursed myself until I blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2: The Mirror of Truth

I awoke in so much pain. My blurred vision at least let me see the sand around me. The smallest bit of hope rose in him as I spotted an F4U Corsair's frame against the moonlight. There was hardly an ounce of breath left in me but still I tried to yelp. The plane's frame twitched slightly and a groan escaped him.

I tried to speak but all that I managed was a squeak and a small exhale of breath. The plane moved once more, opening its eyes to reveal deep brown eyes, "Rush?" I immediately recognized the voice as that of Blair, an incredibly mysterious plane. He never _had_ told anyone about his past. I managed what looked to be a nod. "Oh, Rush," he sighed, "it's good to see you're alive. I thought…" his voice faltered into a fit of wretched coughing.

I forced myself to speak, even though my jaw was pressed up against the sand, "They're coming to rescue us in the morning. You can hold on 'til then, can'tcha?"

Blair looked at me; already the light in his eyes was dying. He looked as if a shadow was haunting him. He choked on his words, "Rush, I can't." His words were met with silence. "Look at me. I'm riddled with bullet holes. Let me tell you they hit every important piece of me possible." He was taking dying awfully well. I, however, was not. Blair took a ragged breath and tried to speak but all that came out was seawater. After several more gasps, he looked at me fearfully for once. In his eyes there was so much pain that I felt it. For a few precious moments our eyes locked, everything in his thoughts flooded into mine. Amazingly, they were not of pain but of fear. He didn't want to die there, on that island. He wanted to cling to the small ounce of life he still had, but already that life was slipping from his grasp. I watched the soldier fall into the pit of death and there was nothing I could do. Those eyes of Blair did not close as he died but rather froze there, trained on me, his last moments staring at me in the face. I tried to turn away but those eyes… they were still there, staring in my peripheral vision, haunting me.

The night wore on but sleep was not to come by. Blair's body still stayed there, only being picked up and thrown higher onto the shore or lower into the water. I kept my eyes trained on the white 31 on his side, or what was left of it. Oil dripped down from the plane's lips, crusting and blackening them. The oil down his sides was no better. It was caked in sand and salt, what was left of his paint could barely be seen. The proud Jolly Wrench's insignia was gone, scraped away and obliterated by bullet holes.

A heard the cry of an albatross overhead caught my attention. It landed on Blair's carcass and began picking at it, the nasty, odd looking, wide eyed plane looked at me dumbly, as if to ask if I was going to shoo it away. I would have, but I was far too weak for that. It squawked happily and began to eat and scrape away what was left of his paint. Forgive me if I've gone too far into detail, but it is true.

That was all that I could see at the moment, as my landing gear would not allow me to move and there was nothing else to look at but sand and ocean, so I closed my eyes. I could not take the grotesque scene any longer.

At the break of dawn I heard voices and opened my eyes. My tank clenched when I saw what was left of Blair. All that was left was his frame and a few strewn apart engine pieces. A vile taste made its way into my throat as the tiny, dumb, gruesome planes circled and pecked at what was left. Some may say albatross are amazing creatures. I only despise them.

I tried to focus on the voices, but they seemed far away. In truth, everything seemed beyond my reach as the sun came up. All I could do to keep from screaming as I experienced that isolation was to bite my lip, caked in sand. It was several hours, from my calculations that I was like this, alone. I was overjoyed when the sounds of plane and carrier engines reached my ears.

A few planes flew over, scaring the albatross away, and landed. They tried to get me back on my landing gear but it was horribly twisted. They, instead, decided to tie me up, looping thick ropes around what was left of my wings and half dragging me out and onto the ship.

When my broken gear touched the ship's deck, I looked at the other Corsairs. Every one of them looked horrified at my condition. One of the pitties, with a grimace on his face, rolled up to me, "We gotta get you fixed up," he then added, "if we can." I was obviously not supposed to here that. I frowned nervously, fearful that I'd never be able to be rid of the painful memories of what had happened. If my wing stayed this way, I could never forget it, or even try to.

He took me below deck and into a room packed with enough spare parts to rebuild this squadron twice over. I disliked this room. The pitty turned a mirror to me. For the first time since the patrol, I saw truly saw how much damage they had done. Each one of my propeller blades was bent back like a flower petal, oil had encrusted most of what had been my port wing and most of my nose, my tail was no better off, and I could hardly tell that the plane in the mirror was me. I stared in shock at the reflection and fainted.


	3. Chapter 3: The Fighting Redcocks

**I am sorry for this taking so long to come out, I've been working hard on my story Taming Oil because it was a part where I just got stuck. This, though, was a lot easier to complete and I'm thinking the next few chapters will come out much faster than this one. Thanks for your patience.**

**Grumman Tomcat~ I'm glad you've enjoyed this. It is definitely one of my darker stories and I'm having fun writing this despite that.**

**MovieGirl44~ Thankfully, this is a *little* less depressing than the last chapter, and I hope you like this chapter just as much as the last.**

**Christine317~ I guess his reaction is a little like a bad hair day, although much more painful and far worse. :P Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying this.**

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><p>When I awoke, I was clean of the sand, salt, and oil that had encrusted around my wings, tail, and fuselage. I dared to look down at where my port wing had been sliced off and oil encrusted. Now, it was only bare wires and warped metal. Every bit of me wanted to yell in shock at the still appalling sight of my left wing. I held back the urge and stayed still so that the mechanic working on me did not startle. He, however, did feel my movement and tapped my rudder with one of his forks in a friendly way, "You took quite a hit, soldier. I'm surprised you ain't dead." I hated the feeling of him being in a place I couldn't see. The mechanic was just hiding behind the blind spot near my tail off the edge of my peripheral vision. "Is every plane this jumpy when someone's near their tail? It would be awful hard to work in battle if you were this afraid when a plane's not in your vision field."<p>

"No," I answered, my voice rough and gravelly, "In battle, you are scared either way. Haven't you helped out on deck under submarine fire?"

"No, not me," the forklift replied, "I ain't one to run around screamin' or followin' orders up there. I'm just a mechanic. You wouldn't catch me up there."

I didn't speak to him at all the rest of the time he was there. My voice was not ready for it, and my jaw ached from talking to Blair earlier. Instead, I tried to figure out how long I'd been out. I assumed it was over an hour or two, as they had fixed my landing gear. It was far more comfortable now that he could stand straight. Besides that, I noticed, they had replaced my elevators. When before one of them had been shot upon, now it did not pain me, and flipped smoothly between the commands of flipping it up and down by my will. The mechanic didn't like this at all. He slapped my tail to get me to stop. You wouldn't believe how painful one, half hearted slap can do when the rest of your body is already burning with pain.

When the mechanic was finished with my tail, he smiled and zipped over in front of me. "All set fer today, at least." He looked at me with sympathetic eyes, "Yer still far from gettin' out of here and flyin' home."

I pulled my one good wing out, it stung to do so, and my engine complained, but I didn't want to go out on deck and not have the wind brushing past both the topside and bottom side of my wing. The mechanic led me out onto the elevator. Just getting on deck was enough to make my breath ragged. "I'm guessin' you'll enjoy being out. Oh, and don't let the other planes get to you. They'll try to get you to talk, and they'll be jealous that you're part of the Wrenches."

"Why?" I croaked.

"The Wrenches get a lot of attention that the Redcocks don't get. They don't exactly like that about you." Sure enough, when I came up from below, several Corsairs' eyes were hungry with curiosity. I just wanted to shrink as shame made my nose hot, hotter than even my overheated engine, and I cast my eyes down at my stub of a wing. I could not fly, not like the others, and, even worse, I had been maimed in battle on a foolish raid.

The mechanic left me there, giving me a look of hope before pushing me off the elevator and going back down. What I assumed was the Skipper of the squadron rolled up to me, "Rush is it?" I gave a quick salute with my good wing. "None of that now," the plane bristled, "I am not strict about these inconveniencies of discipline, here. To run a precision squadron you must keep ranks in battle. Yes, perhaps most squadrons exercise these ranks, but I believe that under the normal circumstances on the ship ranks must disappear." He turned away from me, "For ranks are overrated unless flying."

For a moment I was shocked, the Redcocks were known as a strict squad of elite fighting aircraft. Now, though, they seemed to me crazy. The Skipper's name was Peter, Skipper Riley had told me, and yet most called him Razor, his call sign. Skipper Peter motioned with a wing for me to follow but in the state I was in, it was nearly impossible for me to move. Without engine power I had no motion or very limited motion at that. I started to tell him but he turned and looked sympathetic, "I'll get a pitty to help you out."

My military training told me to nod briskly, but I forced myself to respond. My tone was tense; I do not know where that tenseness came from, "Thank you, Skipper Peter."

The Skipper of the Redcocks scuffed a tire against the ground, annoyed, "Call me Razor. What did I tell you about ranks on this ship, boy?"

"You told me there were none," I responded tautly.

Razor nodded in half praise, half scorn. "Exactly, boy, now I'll get a pitty and we'll get you up on deck. You've got a big day tomorrow."

"Big day?" I asked quietly, for the way he had said 'big day' made me nervous.

Razor turned to me once more, "You're in bad shape, boy. That ol' engine of yours isn't gonna just fix itself." This made a nervous flutter flicker in my tank. Razor continued, "Most of it's being replaced tomorrow and, I'm gonna tell it to you straight. You're a soldier, Rush, and you've served your time in battle. You're injured, badly, and the required repair on your engine is dangerous to do. As for your wing," he sighed, "you're never gonna fly again."

I was horrified at this news, I was grounded. Being grounded for a plane, let me tell you, is like taking a submarine out of water. A plane that can't fly is hardly a plane at all. I just stared at him in a stupefied daze as I thought of what kind of life I'd lead now. I was pointless, what had made me who I am had been taken away from me. I may have thought death was what I deserved on the island, but this was worse.

Razor left, his brown eyes emotionless and clear, to find a pitty. This, too, was something I guessed I must now get used to. Being pushed around by a working vehicle wasn't exactly inviting, not in the least. If my engine wasn't to handle what a plane would call surgery, then that was my promising life. I grimaced at the thought.

It was then that Razor came back, his smile wasn't unfriendly but the fierce light in his eyes unnerved me, that is, until I saw the pitty he had brought along with him. The pitty had a kind demeanor and warm eyes. Her presence, yes, the pitty was a she, calmed the fear and pain. Razor spoke, "Get him on deck, and tend to his needs, whatever they may be. Thank you, Lisa."

The pitty gave a brief nod and zipped around my tail where she gently began pushing me further onto the deck of the Mayday. Indeed, it wasn't fun to have to be pushed around like this. It was positively embarrassing, and some of the Corsairs on the Mayday were looking at me, snickering under their breath. "Don't worry about them," Lisa said scornfully, "They're just glad to have a chance to make fun of a Wrench."

I didn't respond. To be honest, I was about to fall into restless slumber. Only the harsh laughing of the planes on deck kept me conscious. Lisa seemed to notice this. "You're name is Rush, right?" I nodded. "Well, Rush, you should try to get some sleep. It'll be hard on you when your procedure comes tomorrow." This caused me to look back at her nervously, or at least try to. "Clam yourself," Lisa said; brushing her fork across my newly installed elevators, "You're going to be fine." She situated me onto the edge of the deck and left me there. "I have to go, but I'm sure Razor or another plane would get you a pitty to help you." I nodded.

The day wore on, me sleeping for a good part of it. Only later in the day, when I was awake and feeling better for once, did a plane come up to speak to me. He was the darkest blue a Corsair could get, the number painted on his side was 41, and his propellers were oddly a golden hue fading into bright yellow at the tips. "So, you're from the Wrenches?"

"I used to be," I responded with a rasp.

The plane narrowed his eyes, "What makes you say that? You're still a proud member of the Jolly Wrenches, even if you're so beat up you can't fly."

It was my turn to narrow my eyes at him, this stuck up Corsair had hit a nerve. "I guess you could say that."

The plane realized what he had done and gave a bashful smile, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean… yeah, me and my big mouth sometimes." He then looked up at me apologetically, "I'm sorry."

I was taken aback; no soldier I'd ever met had acted like this before, even my closest friends. "No, it's fine. So, what's your name?"

"Oh, it's Sampson. My call sign's Turkey, don't ask me why," he chuckled to himself, "It isn't the most manly call sign a plane could have, is it?"

I only had enough breath to say, "My name's Rush."

"Well Rush, I have to go. It was nice talking to you," Sampson said before rolling off. I watched as he hooked himself up to the catapult and took off. All I wanted to do was join him as the sun began to set behind the clouds and guilt returned.


	4. Chapter 4: Darkness, Pain, and Turkey

**Well, I'm on a roll for writing now, saying I've written how many chapters for various stories in the last few days? Anyways, this next chapter is out, and I hope you enjoy it. I have to warn you, this one's dark... and slightly odd, but only because it's quite hard figuring out how a plane would feel in Rush's situation. A lot of hard work was put into this chapter, I only hope it is done well and that you will enjoy it. Enough babbling about my worries...**

**MovieGirl44~ It's your time to find out what happens next. Oh, and you'll like one of the characters I've introduced. For once there's more dialogue in a chapter. :P**

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><p>My eyes opened, it was night, and I was still in the same spot on the carrier. Only two of the twelve Corsairs on the USS Midway were awake, they were patrolling around the ship, watching for subs and enemy ships. All the others were sound asleep, a few of them snoring loudly. What had waked me up was Lisa. She was pointing to the elevator of the ship and solemnly nodding. It was time. My engine might work after tomorrow, and then no more being pushed by forklifts. I nodded back.<p>

She pushed me to the elevator, where she left me. She threw a switch and the elevator moved slowly downward with a rickety _click, click, click_. "Hey there, boy," Razor greeted me, "Good luck." He gave a salute for luck and rolled away. This made me nervous, just everyone's odd elusive speech as if they were holding back something that I should know.

The mechanic that had been working on me earlier pushed me into the same repair room. He began to better clean my cowling with disinfectant. The stuff stung on my still new wounds. I gritted my teeth together as hard as I could, that seemed to help the pain a bit. The mechanic looked at me with kind eyes, "Sorry 'bout that, but it needs ta be done." He then opened my cowling and detached it. For a moment there was unimaginable pain where the hinges were and then I could not feel the top of my nose. This annoyed me greatly, until the mechanic re-attached a new cowling, one that was darker than my original paint, to fit my nose. This caused another wave of fresh, intense pain to wash through me. I wished it to be detached again. The mechanic winced, "I have to do this part when you're awake."

"Why?" I howled through gritted teeth.

"Because sometimes planes' cowlings will stick when they're asleep," he explained, "it's far worse when that happens."

I nodded, but only enough for the mechanic to feel it but still not disturb his work. "I understand."

"Good, because yer going to have to take this," he showed me a tube that would wrap over my nose and mouth, "It's to put you to sleep. Let's face it, Rush, yer gonna be in a lot of pain afterwards, I don't even want to know how bad it would be during the operation." He worked on attaching a wire to the tip of my good wing, and beeping ensued. "That is to keep track of your vitals, we don't want your engine power to completely die during the operation, or even get near that."

I shivered and smiled sheepishly, "O-okay then…" The mechanic attached the device. A sort of gas entered through the nozzle and hose, forcing me to breath the dense air, searing my engine and starving it for air. I began to laugh, though I don't know why, and in only a few short minutes my vision dimmed and blurred, this process lasted a few seconds then my vision grew sharper and sharper until I could read the fine print of a poster across the room. That was not to last, for the edges of my vision began to grow dimmer and dimmer, until it was like looking through a straw. The slight beeping of what I guessed was my vitals was growing far away. I was wrapped in the deepest sleep I had ever been in. It was almost like nothing was on, not even in the least. It felt like I wasn't even alive. I remember nothing more of that night, but I do remember when I awoke.

My engine was hot from the procedure and being on for who knows how long. I was sore all across my nose beyond belief. The flaps that allowed intake around my nose were stiff, so stiff, in fact, that I couldn't move them. It was then that I looked at my nose for the first time, "What?" White bandages wrapped around my cowling and across my nose.

Sampson was next to me, no, facing me, his amber eyes boring into me, "You're okay! Oh, Lord, you're okay!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright," I groaned. The more consciousness I gained, the worse the pain in my nose became. "Or… not so much," I yelped.

"Rush, you're okay, the mechanic said you'd be okay!" Sampson stared at me almost fearfully, "Come on Rush, stay with me."

I was growing dizzy from pain and tunnel vision was beginning to act up, "Sampson, please, just…" my eyes rolled back and my eyelids grew heavy. I was not ready to be up and searing pain was overtaking me.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Gasoline? Anything? Just let me know," Sampson panicked. "Just let me know, okay Rush?"

"Okay, now please," I sighed, "I'd just like to go to sleep."

Sampson backed off, "Oh, sorry, sorry…" he looked down at his landing gear, "I'm so sorry…"

I just wanted him to stop talking. I folded my good wing in, which it had been extended, and into a more comfortable sleeping position. I drifted into a deeper sleep and Sampson's voice faded. I then heard the mechanic trying to wake me. I didn't care; I was too far gone to be revived for now. I heard yelling but it seemed far away at this point. "Rush, stay with us, come on soldier, I know you can. Come back, Rush." I heard no more, darkness surrounded me.

When I awoke it was dark and I was on deck. Nobody else seemed to be awake. I say seemed because I must have made a sigh when I awoke. Sampson was there, the plane was really beginning to get on my nerves. The Corsair had a look of exhaustion. "You're alive!" he shouted. A few of the planes on deck startled awake, casting malicious glares at me and Sampson before settling back into their sleep. "Rover said he almost lost you, but then later he said you'd be fine. And you are!"

I groaned, "Not completely fine." My entire engine felt as if it was cased in flames and every breath burned, my voice was scratchy and different, like my throat was sandpaper, and my eyes were dry and only wanted to close once more.

Sampson smiled, "But you're alive, that's all that matters." I sunk lower on my landing gear, did I deserve to live? No, not when all the other planes in my squadron were dead. Then again, maybe death was too good for me and that this was my punishment for helping lead six Corsairs to their deaths.

Just then, the mechanic came up, "Yer a strong plane. Ya made it through the night. Yer lucky yer alive. Rush, I lost you for a few precious moments there, so I told Lisa to get Razor and then Razor got Turkey. We thought you were gonna die."

Oh, that was pleasant news, I almost died. At this point, I wanted to. "Great," I mumbled. All I wanted to do was slip back into that numb abyss of unconsciousness. It seemed the best thing that could happen to me at the moment. I took a deep breath, one that seared my throat and engine and closed my eyes. I willed the darkness to come, to take me away. I wanted this to be over, for death to come.

Sampson slapped my good wing, "You aren't doing that again, Rush."

Razor had been awoken by Lisa and the two came up to us, "No, Rush, you can't give up. I know it's probably what you want, but you can't. You have a whole life to live, and if God wanted it to be that you died, he would have done so. You could have drowned or been killed instantly but by some sheer luck or great destiny, you survived. Honor your comrades by not giving up, they would have wanted it."

I hardly listened, but opened my eyes. "Razor, Sampson, how long 'til I get home?"

Sampson snorted, "Please, call me Turkey, everyone else does."

Only Razor answered my question, "In a few days, we are going to pull into New York. The Mayday will restock supplies and you'll be brought home."

I nodded, sleep overtaking me. I was going to be back home in Arizona in only a few days. I wanted to just be alone in my hanger, to get away from the war, and to forget about Glendalcanal and the Jolly Wrenches. And it was then that I gave myself to sleep, despite the coaxing and demands that I should not.


	5. Chapter 5: The Dream of Death

**The next chapter is out! I was having slight writers block on it this weekend. Also, for those of you who follow Taming Oil, it may be a while before I get the next chapter out. I'm having major writers block on it and am taking a break from it for a while until I think of exactly how I want to continue. Thank you.**

**Grumman Tomcat~ Oh, he might, but not until meeting another certain OC of mine. Henceforth the name "RushandStreak".**

**MovieGirl44~ Rush is used to the heat, as I'll mention later in the story. As for Turkey, I'm glad you like him. Honestly, I literally made him up on the spot. I had in mind that Rush would make friends with a Corsair from the Redcocks, but I never knew who. Thanks for the compliment.**

**Christine375~ Here's that more you were hoping for.**

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><p>The Mayday floated onward, towards home, towards, perhaps, my fate. I was sitting on deck, facing the view to the blurred line of land in the distance. My engine was fine now, and I was in the clear. Turkey had even dragged me down below to have the Fighting Redcocks' insignia applied next to the white piston and cross wrenches on my nose. I did not deserve it. I wished just to be off the ship soon, to get away from my life in the Navy, to forget, and to hide my scars from the world. My entire squadron was gone, and all because of me.<p>

Turkey pulled beside me, "You ready to get home? To see your family?"

"I haven't got any family," I sighed, "my father crashed when I was too young to remember, and my mother died just shortly before I joined this wretched war."

Turkey looked down, "I'm sorry."

We stood silent for a few moments, before it felt as if something needed to be said. "What about you?"

Turkey startled, "What?"

"What about you? Have you got any family?"

"I have a brother, and my dad's still out there… somewhere. He went missing after he joined the war. He was actually on this ship for a few weeks. But if I know him, he's fine, probably just ran off scared. He'll show up in a few days, I'm sure," Turkey said confidently, but his eyes betrayed fear and sadness.

Even if Turkey was pesky and annoying, he was still a friend now, or at least as close of a friend as I could take after Glendalcanal. I couldn't find myself too close to anyone, not after seeing my comrades die at war all because of me.

I tried to be friendly and cheer the Corsair up, "I'm sure he will."

Turkey smiled, "You're right, I shouldn't be worrying. He'll be fine."

It was then that Razor came up to me. "We should be docking in three hours. Good luck, Rush, and I guess this is goodbye."

"Why? Won't I see you before I have to go?" I was confused.

Razor shook his nose, "Not likely, the Redcocks have a lot to do when we get to New York, we'll all be busier than slaves as soon as we get the Mayday docked. That includes Turkey here." Razor snapped a salute to him and Turkey returned it. "But I've got a patrol to lead until then. Some of these boys need a good exercise, haven't flown in a few days now. Gotta get off their lazy tails and into the air, where a plane belongs."

I cringed slightly, trying not to let the Skipper see. That last sentence hat hit a nerve. I couldn't fly; a plane that couldn't fly was hardly a plane at all. For a moment I longed for the air beneath my wings, but the longer I dared to dream, the faster and sharper the dark day of Glendalcanal grew in my mind, tearing and ripping apart the blue sky with streaks of flame, screaming, and despair. I snapped out of my daydream.

Razor was gone, and Turkey was beginning to stare at me, "Rush, you okay?"

I shook my nose, "I'm fine… just…" I couldn't continue. All I wanted to do was to leave behind those memories, not bring them back.

Turkey seemed to sense this, "Okay then. I'm glad to hear that."

I left the Mayday just over three and a half hours later. The huge ship was smiling back almost sadly at my departure. New York was a city I wish never to encounter again. The stench of it made me gag on air itself, and the skyscrapers, obscuring my view of the sky on every side but up, felt as if they were closing in on me. I don't recall the city clearly now, as I've tried to block the memory out of my mind.

In truth, I don't remember much of even coming home. All I remember when getting there off the plane was my shame and embarrassment. The passengers looks were often times screwed up in horror, shock, wonder, and grotesque. Even when I got into my own town the planes, cars, and forklifts gave me looks of pity. I drove low on my suspension until I got to my hanger.

It was, and still is, a typical home. Its dark grey, beat up exterior looked as if it had been in battle too. Outside flew an ominous flag with the Jolly Wrenches piston and cross wrenches white on black. It was not quite as shabby on the inside as on the outside. A tan carpet covered one wing of the two winged hanger and the rest was cement. A low set table, better built for a car rather than a plane, centered the main room and brought the place together. A calendar hung from a post in the first wing, last date not checked off being the 13th of December, 1942. It had been that long since I had last been home. Now the place was full of musty air and memories, floating along with the specks of dust dancing in the draft from the open door.

I was home. Home, where I belonged, where I could be alone, where eyes did not look down at me scornfully, with pity, or horror. My landing gear felt heavy, and I taxied over to the carpeted part of the hanger. The carpet was soft on my tires, a treat that no plane got on any aircraft carrier, and the smell of home flowed through me. I fell asleep, dreaming comforting dreams only torn by the occasional scream of a hawk that must have been flying overhead.

But that scream stuck with me, and tore my dreams into shreds. The pure rage, anger, and fury of Corsairs with fire flickering behind their eyes was unleashed. I recognized them. They were those that had died in Glendalcanal. My sleep that night was restless and broken. This dream would plague my sleep for days and even years to come. The Dream of Death, I called it.

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><p><strong>Okay, that wasn't the greatest chapter, but I've had a lot going on lately and this story just came to a halt for a very short period of time. I hope you've enjoyed it still and please review.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6: Rain, Mud, Cold, and Dragons

**Sorry that took sooo long to write this... I was trying to figure out how to introduce... well, you'll see. Yes, I'll admit, this chapter is a little odd but I can't just take out one of my oldest OCs from this story who has an entire history with Rush. Honestly, I don't even know how I came up with this sort of odd companionship. I just hope that the fact that Streak shows up doesn't deter others from reading it.**

**Grumman Tomcat ~ I'm glad you think that. I have to say that Rush's past is one of my most accomplished stories.**

**MovieGirl44 ~ Well, I know you know about the story a bit already but here's the plot changer, I suppose.**

**Christine317 ~ Yep, that's the point. I really like getting into character and I think that chapter is the closest I've gotten to "becoming" Rush.**

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><p>The weeks after are a blur for me, simply because I spent them staring out of the hanger for prolonged periods of time or just sitting there, mourning, sobbing, remembering, pitying myself and my squadron. I look back on those many sleepless nights and wish I had the power to go back and change it, knowing what a waste of time it was. But the past is gone, like dust in the wind, and nothing can change it.<p>

And that may have been how it would have stayed except for one odd individual.

It was raining the day I met him, and rain was rare in Arizona, especially when it rains for more than an hour. But that's what it was doing now: raining, pouring, and down-right-dumping hundreds of buckets of water on top of the hanger, sand, and cacti. For two hours already this storm had pelted the roof, making the ground outside muddy and full of puddles. My roof leaked down, dripping onto me wherever I stood, annoying me so.

I was trying to get away from the leaky roof when I heard a loud crash, almost the noise a bird makes when hitting your window. For a second I thought that my hanger window had broken, smashed, or pulled out of its frame. It was a very loud sound, and to a paranoid plane, it was frightening. Perhaps even more so than the shell and flak I had flown through in the war. I crept to that side, empty guns drawn, and peered out the window of the port wing. There was something out there, but the window was smeared by raindrops and smudges like the kind I had never seen.

I decided to go out in the rain, even though I dreaded it. I still don't understand why I went out of the hanger, as it was miserable outside and a bird hitting the window is hardly worth looking at. I slowly taxied around the hanger, looking out for anything out of place or broken, and shivering slightly as I did. It was cooler, after all, and one of the coldest summers I remember, as well as the wettest.

The mud was splattering around my landing gear, sploshing around unpleasantly as I went along. Combined with the cold, I was nearly ready to stop there and turn around when I heard a noise like nothing I could really explain. It was more of a warbling of sorts, a slightly odd wavering growl from the back of the throat that rose higher and higher pitched until it almost hurt my ears. I cringed as the creature -dare I call it an animal- made itself seen.

Like all the events of that day, the creature was extraordinary, something like nothing, something that looked as if it had come straight from hell, like a monster from horror stories,or like something from folk lore. I had seen those animals called dinosaurs or dragons, along with other prehistoric monsters from times lost to history, in museums. The creatures looked more like something some crazy, paranoid,or even perhaps drunk, plane had made up in some fit: huge metal things called legs that stuck out of a sleek body, wings of airplanes that folded in no way any plane could fold their wings nowadays, teeth bristling sharply from long mouths, noses tipped in propellers, spines ginting metallic in the sun, and sharp claws extending from feet.

This was a bit like what the creature standing in front of me seemed like. The only difference was that the creature, which could only be described as a dragon, was not made of metal and rather something not unlike certain fabric materials with raised bumps. Every line the 'dragon' possessed was sleek, not technology and wire stuffed. Two wings stretched out from its back, something I could only call a frame at the time holding up lengths of thin, flimsy, vinyl-like material. Four slender legs and a long tail tipped in two flap like fans stuck out of the thin body of the animal.

The color of the 'dragon' was a light blue, nearly white in color, with sky blue to navy blue stripes rippling down its sides and tail, as well as leading along the sides of its wings and covering the fans on the tail. Its eyes were the color of aqua blue, sharp and beady yet, somehow, full of emotion.

I jumped back, half slipping, half rolling back and away from the creature. It flapped its wings in an odd manner and jumped forward. To my surprise, it spoke, "Hey, hello! What are you?" I stopped, shivering, shaking, and covered with mud, staring at the creature who had spoken. It took a few steps forward, "Um, I've never quite seen a dragon like you before… but I don't think you're a dragon either. I can see you have wings, but what's with the three… for lack of words, _legs_?" I couldn't speak, scared out of my mind, thinking that what I was seeing was nothing but something in my imagination. "Oh, come on," the thing continued, "You gotta know how to speak."

I finally swallowed my fear, if I was hallucinating at least I should get to know my own hallucination. "Hello…" I muttered, not knowing quite what to say.

"Oh, good, you're not mute," the creature said, smiling. Two huge ears popped up from laying on its head in a chipper manner. "The name's Streak."

"Rush," was all I could speak.

The dragon crept closer, "What are you, anyway? I've never seen anything quite like you before."

"I'm an F4U Corsair," I yelped slightly as the dragon climbed up onto my good wing.

The dragon's long neck curled around and looked at me, "Oh. Helpful. Okay, you have anything to eat? I could go for something right about now. I've been living off of cacti for the past week." The dragon stuck his tongue out and made a face.

"Well," I asked, "What do you eat?"

"Eh, anything really," the dragon said, now climbing up onto my cockpit, "Bugs, birds, fish. Just any kind o' meat really. Pretty easy to find… unless you're in this place."

"Meat?" I wondered aloud, "Sorry, but there's no such thing here. There are, however, bugs."

Streak's ears pricked up happily, "Where?"

I was nervous to invite the hallucination into my hanger, but I was also beginning to find my wingtips going numb from the cold and the rain, "They're all over my hanger. It would be nice to get rid of them."

Yes, that was how I met Streak, my long time friend. Without Streak, you will find, I may have sat sulking in my hanger until I rusted to death… that or drowned in my own tears.

I suppose I still worry about my sanity once and a while when I speak to Streak, saying many can't understand him. Only a very precious few are able, and often times they don't believe that they can. Either way, I'm giving too many spoilers all at once.


End file.
